She would cry until she was exhausted, sleep for two hours, wake up reaching for him, realize he was gone, and start the cycle all over again.
Two weeks later.
The phone rang for the tenth time that morning. The screen lit up: Harrison (Mobile). followed by a text preview: Sarah, please. I’m staying at a hotel. I just want to talk. I miss you.
Sarah looked at the phone. For the first time in fourteen days, she didn't feel the urge to cry. She felt a cold, sharp clarity.
The grief hadn't vanished, but it had calcified into something harder. Something useful.
"You miss me," she whispered to the empty kitchen. "But you didn't miss me enough to keep your pants on."
She stood up. She tied her hair back into a severe ponytail. She went to the garage and grabbed a stack of flattened cardboard boxes left over from a Costco run.
She walked back inside, tape gun in hand.
It was time for the demolition.
She started in the bathroom. She didn't throw things. She didn't smash his cologne bottles or cut up his towels. That was what Emily would do. Sarah was not Emily. Sarah was efficient.
She swept his toiletries into a box. Razor. Shaving cream. The toothbrush she had bought him.
Tape. Zip. Label: BATHROOM.
She moved to the bedroom. She opened the closet. The smell of him hit her—leather and wool—and she paused, her hand gripping the door frame. A tear leaked out, hot and fast. She wiped it away angrily.
She stripped his hangers. Suits. Dress shirts. The hoodies she used to steal. She folded them neatly. She wasn't going to givehim the satisfaction of saying she destroyed his property. She was returning his inventory. He was a transaction now. A failed business partner.
She went to the nightstand. She opened the drawer. Inside was a small velvet box. She opened it. Diamond earrings. An anniversary gift he had been hiding? Or a guilt gift?
She snapped the box shut and tossed it into the "MISC" carton.
By 4:00 PM, the house looked different. It was less cluttered. It was quieter. The boxes were stacked by the front door—a wall of cardboard bricks.
She called a moving company.
"I have twelve boxes and some small furniture," she told the dispatcher. "I need them delivered to a storage unit today. I’ll pay the rush fee."
"Address?"
She gave them the address. Then she texted the storage unit code to Harrison.
Sarah: Your things are at U-Store-It on 5th. Unit 402. Code is 8842. Do not come to the house. The locks are being changed tomorrow.
She blocked his number again before he could reply.
The law offices of Vance & Keating were located on the 40th floor, overlooking the city. The view was sterile, geometric, and orderly. Sarah liked it.
She sat in the leather chair, her hands folded in her lap. She was wearing a black blazer. No wedding ring. The tan line on her finger was the only evidence it had ever been there.
Mr. Vance, a silver-haired man with kind eyes but a shark’s smile, opened a file folder.
"Mrs. Miller," he began.
"Ms. Bennett," she corrected him. "I’m going back to Bennett."
He nodded, making a note. "Ms. Bennett. I’ve reviewed the summary you sent over. Adultery is a fault ground in this state, but it can be messy to prove without hard evidence."
"I don't care about the fault," Sarah said, her voice steady. "I don't want a war. I don't want to drag this out in court where I have to listen to the details of what they did."
